My Past is Everything I Failed to Be
by doritoFace1q
Summary: In the aftermath of the coup d'état, an unexpected development drives Levi back to the Underground on a mission for revenge. Or, where the Scouts learn some hidden truths about their world and two members of their group. Established Eruri (Levi/Erwin)
1. Chapter 1

**In case you didn't read the tags: this fic is chock-full of canon-supported headcanons, and the main plot is based around them. So if you have a problem with that, then this story probably isn't best for you.**

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_The door clicked shut behind Konstantin, the screams dulled, but not full muted, by the thick wood._

_ Alscher didn't even look up from his notebook, pen scratching against thick, heavy paper as he ran through his calculations for the millionth time. "How is the Augustian boy?" he asked._

_ Hansel stared at his back in disbelief. "You _did_ hear the screaming, right?"_

_Alscher ignored him, frowning as he looked over his page of numbers and symbols. "No, that is not right. . . Konstantin, come, look over this for me."_

_ Hansel sighed, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat and walking over. He put a hand on the back of the older doctor's chair and leaned forwards, squinting in the dim candlelight. "Yeah. . . that ain't it." He chewed his lips as he looked over the lines again. "There." He tapped the fourth line with the tip of his finger. "That. It's a two, not an inkblot—you forgot to square it."_

_ "Ah, of course." Alscher nodded, scratching out the erroneous lines and restarting. "Many thanks, my boy."_

_ "Not a problem." Hansel stretched his arms over his head, sighing as his spine popped. "Why've you only got one candle lit? It's practically pitch black in here."_

_ "Time, my boy," Alscher muttered, absorbed in his calculations once again as Hansel opened a side drawer, pulling out a box of matches. "It is all about time. Not a second must be wasted, not on work as delicate as this. That, and I could not find the matches."_

_ Hansel snorted, striking a match and leaning over to light the other candles on the old man's table. "How go the formulas?" he asked, stepping back and walking towards his side of the room, shoving aside a few papers, covered in scribbles and crossed-out equations, and lighting his own candles. "Any improvements?"_

_ Alscher sighed, reaching up to tug at his scruffy white beard. "None that I can be certain of, unfortunately," he replied. "Not until I am able to test them." He frowned, as if remembering something. "You said something about the Augustian subject, yes?"_

_ "Yeah." Right on cue, a loud, earth-shattering scream pierced the walls of the office, followed by the crack of a bullet being fired. "Not good."_

_ "Blast!" Alscher slammed his hand down on the table, making the freshly lit candles in their scones teeter dangerously. "Fools! We had ordered them not to fire! _Not to kill!_ Another data dump, gone!"_

_ "'_Data dump_'," Hansel snorted, crossing his arms. "Careful old man—you're beginning to sound like one of us youngsters."_

_ "Hush," Alscher snapped. "Where is Comtois? That child—she could not possibly be visiting that subject again!"_

_ "She is," Hansel said. "And, honestly, Hugo, I agree with her, to an extent. I don't think she's the _key_ to it, necessarily, but I do think there is something to observe there. She didn't react like the others; there wasn't any screaming, just—"_

_"Vegetable," Alscher spat. "There is nothing to gain from speaking to _vegetables_. Doctor Comtois is wasting her time."_

_"Aren't we all?" Hansel sighed, pulling his own seat out and sitting down heavily in it. He rubbed his face, feeling the lines of the bags that had developed under his eyes. "The boy they just shot was the last of the untested Augustian P.O.W.s, and even the Eldian prisons are starting to thin out. Hugo, we can't just keep doing the same things over and over again, and expect different results. Alice says that that's the definition of insanity—"_

_ "You'll gain nothing listening to Comtois's Larkin blabbering," Alscher growled, hunched over his papers. "She is a fool in all matters but science, and had she not been sent here by the King himself, I would never have let her enter my lab—"_

_ "_Our_ lab," Hansel muttered, shuffling a few pages of notes, stacking them messily on top of a thick volume, the spine covered with smudged scribbles, scratched into the leather when the paper had been a further reach than the priceless tomes._

_"—really trust her, the wild woman?" Alscher continued, ignoring the younger man's protests. "She truly believes—"_

_ Before the aging scientist could finish his spiel, the door flew open, and another figure burst into the room._

_ "My God!" Hansel jumped, fumbling a scroll as he pointed it at the intruder, holding it out like a sword. "Who the hell—oh, Alice. Hey."_

_ "Hansel!" The woman beamed, grabbing his forehead and pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to it. "Hansel, I got it!"_

_ "Wha—got what?" He pulled back, wrinkling his nose and grabbing a handkerchief, wiping at his forehead, grimacing at the wetness in his thick brown brows. "_Ew_, Alice, what in the world?!"_

_Alice clapped her hands, bushy blonde lock bouncing around her as she jumped up and down. "I have it, Hansel! Ha!" She turned, pointing a triumphant finger at the bewildered Alscher. "I've been waiting for this day: I expect a written apology, and a bottle of fine wine on my desk within the week—"_

_ "_What_ do you have?" Hansel asked, tossing his handkerchief on his desk and standing up. "Wait—" his eyes widened. "That woman—did you experiment—?!"_

"Yes!" _She grabbed his shoulders, spinning him around (a dangerous activity in the broom closet of a laboratory). "It worked, Konstantin, it _worked_! She responded! She _responded_!"_

XXX

Levi wrinkled his nose, tugging at the collar of his shirt as a plump, silk-draped woman bustled by, a heavy cloud of perfume drifting in her wake. "Ugh," he grumbled, waving a hand in front of his face. Hange nodded in agreement, wrinkling their nose. "What is this bullshit?" he demanded. "Is it supposed to make them smell good, or something?"

"Yeah," Hange took a sip from their thin glass of cider. "Something like that."

"Well, it sure as hell isn't working," Levi scoffed, taking a gulp of his own drink. "Honestly—the shit's everywhere, and all I can smell is the reek underneath. Maybe," he added, swishing the cider around, watching it splash against the glass, "they'd start smelling better if they actually pulled their heads out of their asses and took a shower once a month, 'stead of spraying themselves with enough fumes to power your ODM."

Hange snorted loudly, practically cackling as they put their empty glass on the table, grabbing an apple. "Maybe."

The corner of Levi's lip twitched as he finished off his drink, sliding it across the table to join Hange's. "How long do we have to stay here?" he asked, crossing his arms and scowling. "Don't we have better shit to do than pretend to be happy and content with shit?"

Hange shrugged, taking a large bite out of the fruit. "Dunno," they shrugged, wiping at the juice running down their chin. "But, hey, 'least there's free food everywhere, right?"

Levi rolled his eyes. "Sure," he grumbled, glaring after another couple, decked out like colourblind peacocks, drift past. "Probably nothing for these shits, though—bet they have twice this every day for breakfast."

"Oh, come on," Hange chided. "That's a _bit_ of an exaggeration—"

Wordlessly, Levi pointed across the room towards a grey-haired, many-chinned noble, his layers of vibrant purple silk barely keeping his large, drooping belly in. The man's entire form seemed to jiggle when he laughed, countless chins swinging back and forth as he threw his head back, flute of fine wine tiny between his thick, sausage-like fingers. Hange wrinkled their nose.

"What bullshit," Levi growled, tapping a finger irritably against the polished wooden surface of the table. "I thought we were putting them all away. Why're there still so many dancing around, eating and drinking like it's their fucking birthday?"

Hange shrugged. "We couldn't accuse _all_ of them of war crimes," they told him. "And, 'sides, the economy would fall apart if they were all put away."

"Fuck the economy," Levi grumbled. "Only thing a pile of gold's good for is food and gear. Have you _seen_ their estates?" He waved a hand grumpily in front of him.

"Agreed." Hange tossed the apple core over their shoulder and wiped their hands down on the front of their suit. "I swear—oh, god, here comes another one," they groaned.

The thin man shuffling towards them put in mind the image of a cautious vulture—hands drawn in front of him, wide eyes shifting about, hopping carefully through a picked-clean field. "Ah." His voice was as thin as he was, high and reedy, and strained, as if he were speaking through gritted teeth. "Captain, Commander." He held out a bony, wrinkled hand, fingers curled like claws as he extended it towards them.

"Section Commander," Hange corrected, "Zoë. Hange Zoë. And you are. . ?" Their voice was stiff, and they somehow managed to look physically exhausted from the effort of putting on a polite façade.

"Hase," he wheezed, taking their hand in both of his, giving it a firm, quivering shake. "Wojciech Hase, Count of Keller. I sponsored the Survey Corps on many an occasion," he explained, tucking his hands neatly into his long, dangling sleeves as Hange withdrew their own hand, a forced smile plastered on their face. "I have offered my support for many years, since before 844. It was my greatest delight to hear of your victory tonight." He turned to Levi. "I would like to offer you, Captain, my congratulations in particular," he croaked out. "I heard it was you who lead the charge against the Titan that attacked Orvud—"

"Actually," Levi grumbled, looking away. "It was Rei—the new Queen who took it down. You'd probably be better off flattering her, instead of me."

"Ah," the man wheezed a small chuckle. "You misread me, Captain. I mean not to flatter, but to congratulate and thank. After all, it was your squad who discovered the truth of the false King, was it not? You must be truly proud of yourself."

Levi's shoulders rippled in an awkward shrugging motion. "Whatever," he muttered, hoping the man would get the clue and hop off to bother someone else.

He had no such luck, however. "I was interested in speaking with your Commander, actually," he said. "I've heard whispers of a planned Expedition to reclaim the lost lands in Wall Maria—"

"Oh, yeah?" Levi plucked a grape from a nearby plate, wrinkling his nose as he turned it about in his fingers. "And why the hell do you care 'bout that?" Hange snorted, smirking behind the curve of their freshly topped-off glass.

"A step forwards for humanity is a step forward for all of us," Keller said, "and I have stood behind the Corps for years. I understand the Regiment's missions are now being fully funded by the state, but I'm more than willing to donate extra funds to the Corps: for extra uniforms, perhaps, or simple pleasures—speak of the devil!"

Levi glanced up from his intense study of the grape just in time to see Erwin join the group at the table. "Hange, Levi," he nodded at each of them in turn, smiling faintly at Levi. "Enjoying yourselves?"

Levi rolled his eyes, and Hange shrugged, tipping back their cider. "Commander Smith," Keller greeted, holding out his shrivelled claw. "My congratulations on your pardon—may I just say, I never wavered in my belief in the Survey Corps for a minute."

"Lord Hase." Erwin took his hand, shaking it firmly (Levi mentally willed Erwin to squeeze _just_ hard enough for them to hear a crack, but alas) and plastering a fake, polite smile on his face. "Thank you. I just caught the tail end of your conversation; you were looking for me?"

"Quite, quite." Erwin released his hand, letting Keller tuck them away again. "I and a group of my associates hope greatly for the Corps success in the future, and are more than willing to offer whatever we can to help. Might you be available for a deeper discussion?"

"It would be my pleasure," Erwin smiled. "Who might your associates be?"

"If you wouldn't mind waiting here, I could bring them over," Keller offered.

"Thank you." The three soldiers watched as the man shuffled, back hunched, back into the midst of the party.

"Sina, Maria, Rose, and above," Hange finally groaned as his cautious, hopping movements vanished into the crowd. "What a vulture."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Levi muttered, popping the grape into his mouth and grabbing another. "'I never wavered in the Corps for a minute'—what kind of bullshit is that? I thought we were done with their bullshit," he said, directing the last part of his sentence to Erwin.

"We should be," Erwin sighed, raising his own drink to his mouth—some kind of deep, red wine. "But it never hurts to have some extra sponsors under our belts."

"Like we need them," Levi grumbled. "I'm pretty sure Historia's already siphoned double what she promised into our budget, just to piss the rest of the Council off."

Hange laughed, throwing their head back. "That _does_ sound like something she'd do," they snickered. "Anyways," they waved a waiter over, holding up their empty glass. "How'd Keller hear about the expedition to Maria, anyways? I thought that was being kept under wraps."

"It's not a major secret," Erwin said, watching as the waiter tipped the sparkling golden drink into Hange's glass from a large jug. "And I don't doubt that there's speculation in the public—after all, it just seems like the next reasonable step."

"Maybe." Levi shrugged. "Oi, four-eyes, cool it," he snapped as Hange tipped their head back, downing half their glass. "If you get shitfaced, I'm not carrying your ass back to headquarters."

"Please," Hange grinned, cheeks already beginning to grow rosy. "We all know you'd do it, anyways."

"More like drag you through the mud on your face," Levi shot back.

"What'd you mean?" Hange giggled. "There's no _mud_ in Mitras."

"Oh, my god, I can't deal with you right now," Levi grumbled, shoving them away and kicking them lightly on the leg. "Go find Moblit, or something."

Erwin chuckled as Levi leaned back against the table. "Not having a good time?" he asked.

Levi scoffed. "In this crowd?" he asked sarcastically. "Never." He tossed the grape into the air, catching it delicately between two fingers. "Can't they just wrap it up and let us _go_? If I have to breathe in one more lungful of fucking _cologne_, I'm gonna be sick, and not just in the figurative sense."

Erwin laughed quietly. "It shouldn't take too much longer," he assured, placing a hand lightly on the younger man's lower back. "An hour, at the most. Then we can start trickling out."

Levi scoffed. "You'd better make this up to me," he said.

"I will," Erwin promised, standing a bit straighter at the sight of Keller making his way back towards them. "Right after we're done this."

"Commander," Keller gestured at his companion as he approached. "My friend—I believe you've met before?"

Levi's gaze flicked over Keller's shoulder, and his blood froze. "Old acquaintance of mine," Keller continued, shuffling forwards. "Close family friends—business ties, you understand—"

_"I trust you've already received the payment?"_

_ "I don't know what you call it, but, in our world, we call it blackmail."_

He held out a hand, arm steady (_his skin was pallid, hanging loosely off a frame too thin for what it was used to_), fingers open in a cordial gesture (_his nails were bitten to the quick, the skin around them torn and dry_). "Commander Smith." His voice was hoarse and raspy, but still held an air of pompousness (_there was an underlying tone of maliciousness, like a snake twisting through the gutters_). "Pleasure to see you again." His eyes were cold, a steely contradiction of his warm, welcoming words (_bags heavier than his own hung beneath his eyes, the beady orbs sunken into his bald head_).

"Nicholas," Keller rasped. "Captain Levi and Commander Smith. Sirs—my friend, Nicholas Lobov."

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**AKA a second attempt at my previous Underground fic.**


	2. Chapter 2

**The cold open/flashback/Alice Comtois fucking around part is a bit longer this time, but so is the whole fucking chapter, so there you go.**

**Translations at bottom.**

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_Anechka Donadieu's pale grey eyes were blank, cloudy and unseeing, as she stared straight ahead, past Alice, through the wall, into some point in the distance only she could see._

_ "Lady Donadieu," Alice said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. "Or would you prefer Mrs.? Anna?" she prompted again when the woman didn't respond. "Ann?" she asked again. "What about Princess Volkova?"_

_ Donadieu stayed silent, slumped against the wall, wild cornsilk locks hanging in tangled mats over her face and shoulders. Alice glanced to the side at the thin wooden, wall, behind which Hugo and Hansel were waiting, no doubt pressed against the earpieces, listening to everything happening in the small cell. _Just be patient_, she nearly scolded at the wall aloud._

_ "Alright then, Anna," Alice said perkily, tucking a twisted blonde curl behind her ear. "I think you liked Anna fine, last time. Did your friends ever call you Anna?" she asked. "Or was Ann more familiar for them?" She flipped through the pages on her clipboard, eyes flicking down the thin, cramped lines of text. "Your husband called you Annelle, right?"_

_ Anna shifted by barely a fraction, shoulder twitching. Alice's eyes flicked up. "Do you remember your husband?" she asked. "Lord Ethan?" Anna blinked slowly, eyes not moving from the fixed point in the distance. "You married nearly fourteen years ago," she prompted. "You've two children: Gabriel and Louise. Do you remember them?"_

_ Anna's lips moved marginally, twitching so faintly that Alice almost feared it to be a trick of the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. A muffled cough came from behind the wooden wall and she rolled her eyes, giving the withered old scientist a mental middle finger. "Do you remember _me_?" she asked, focusing her attention back on Anna. "We spoke, yesterday. And the day before that. Almost every day, actually, for almost two weeks. My name's Alicia." Anna blinked again, and Alice smiled, a slow, steady excitement building up in her chest. "Alicia Comtois, but nobody calls me that but my grandmother. I've already told you that, though. My father comes from your husband's country."_

_ Anna blinked again, misted gaze flicking, just for a second, to the younger woman. Her dry, cracked lips parted slowly, quivering. Her throat bobbed, chin shaking as she struggled to form words._

_ Alice quickly dropped the clipboard, rushing over to her side and bringing a mug of water to her lips. "That's it," she said, tipping Anna's head back and slowly letting the water flow past her lips. "Just take it slow. There you go." She kept a light hand on her shoulder, hazel eyes sharp and narrowed, fixed on the woman's face. "There. That's it." She put the mug down, leaving her hand on Anna's shoulder. "You were going to say something," she said. "What was it?"_

_ Anna's chest rose as she took in a long, rattling breath, closing her dull, sandy eyes again as she blinked once more. "_Fai_—" She broke off with a dry cough, spittle flecking her lower lip._

_ Alice rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles. _"Allons, allons,"_ she muttered, switching flawlessly into the delicate, decorated language she'd learned, in the darkness of the drawing room, sitting by the fire, from her father as a child. _"C'est bien,"_ she said consolingly. _"C'est bien. Je vais attendre."

_ Anna's coughs slowly subsided and her tense shoulders loosened, chin drooping to rest on her chest. "There you go," Alice murmured, hand still rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. "Just breathe." They sat like that for another minute, Anna silent and limp, Alice's hand rubbing across her bony back. "Are you ready to talk?" she asked, voice low, gentle. "Or do you need another minute?" She could nearly picture Hugo seething in the other room, longing to burst into a tirade of imperialist screeching._ "Vas-tu parler?"

_ Anna's fingers twitched. Alice sat next to her, hand never slowing its ministrations. Finally, after what seemed like another eternity and a half, a small, hoarse voice drifted through the room, hoarse and frail._ "Alouette?"_ the woman asked, voice cracking at the end. _"Tu. . ." she coughed again. "Tu es. . . Alouettiene?"

_"Yeah," Alice muttered, lowering her hand to pat the back of the woman's. "Yeah. _Oui." She nodded, even though Anna couldn't see her, taking her limp, lifeless hand gently in hers. "Mon pére. Il est né dans Alouette."

". . . Ta mére?"

_Alice turned Anna's hand over in hers, gaze flicking over the lines of scarring from countless track marks and scalpels._ "Elle est né ici," _she answered._

"Ici. . . où?"

"Ce pays," _Alice told her, peering through the tangled curtain of hair in front of Anna's face, carefully tracking her expression._ "C'est l'Empire d'Étoile."

_Alice inhaled sharply, fingers suddenly tightening around Alice's, hands grasping hers in a bone-crushing grip. Alice gasped at the unexpected pain, letting out a small cry as she gripped Anna's wrist, trying to wrench herself away. Anna's face was still blank, but the layer of mist over her eyes had cleared._

"Étoile,"_ she rasped, bright steel eyes sharp as flint and cold as ice, arm shaking as she tightened her grip on Alice's hand, voice lowering into a deep, dark growl. _"Eldia."

_A loud _snap_ splintered through the room and Alice screamed, tears springing to her eyes at the sudden, fresh burst of pain. The door to the cell flew open and soldiers rushed in, firelight flashing off the polished metal of their helmets and guns, the horns spiraling from the sides of their headgear clacking against those of their comrades as they aimed at Anna, the clicks of a dozen safety switches ringing through the air. Three men ran forwards, two of them seizing Anna and, after a brief struggle, pulling her off. The other one took her uninjured hand, pulling her to her feet and shielding her with his body, as if, by blocking her slight build with his own bricklike one, he could convince Anna she wasn't there and keep her from lunging._

_ "Do not fire!" she ordered through clenched teeth, hand cradled delicately to her chest. _"Do not fire!"_ she repeated, louder, when she saw a guard in the corner of the room raise his gun slightly, turning the muzzle to Anna's head. "The subject must _not_ be harmed! That's an order!"_

_ "Dr. Comtois—!" protested another man (he pronounced her name Kohm-taus)._

_ "An _order_, Captain Bähr," she ground out through gritted teeth, jaw tight._

_ Bähr hesitated for a moment before holstering his weapon. The rest of his troops followed suit. She turned, shrugging off the bulky soldier's hand on her shoulder as she left the cell._

_ Hansel took her hand as soon as she stepped out into the hallway, another guard standing ready, a pile of loose cotton in one hand, a roll of gauze in the other. "Metacarpal," she told him, grimacing as he turned her hand back and forth, testing her wrist. "Pinkie and ring finger. Hairline fracture, maybe."_

_ Hansel frowned, pressing a finger down on her hand. She resisted the urge to yowl and claw his eyes out like a provoked cat. "Fracture," he corrected. "Not hairline." He plucked some cotton from the soldier's hand, packing it around her hand._

_ "What did I say?" Alscher demanded, nearly shaking—whether from anger, excitement, or a mix of both, she couldn't tell. "What did I say? I warned you, did I not? I said the Larkin woman was dangerous! A lost cause! But did you listen?" He threw his hands into the air. "No! Like all bone-headed foreign youth, you marched ahead, not a single thought in mind about the risk of jeopardizing our goal—"_

_ Hansel rolled his eyes, mouth flapping open and shut as he mimicked the old man's incensed screeching. Alice's lips quirked into a small smirk and she looked down, watching his long, slender fingers carefully wrap the layers of gauze around the cotton on her hand._

_ "Too tight?" he asked quietly._

_ She shook her head. "Fine," she muttered._

_ "—recommend that slobbering beast's immediate execution—!"_

_ "What?" Alice's head shot up. Alscher scowled, as if affronted that she hadn't been hanging onto his every word._

_ "The subject, Donadieu," he snapped. "Clearly, she is too much of a liability to be kept alive. I have said it before, and I shall say it again! There is nothing to gain from studying vegetables—especially vegetables who will break bones and bite noses—!"_

_ "But that's just it!" Alice shouted back. "That woman, she's different, Alscher, it's obvious!"_

_ "Useless, you mean!"_

_ "No!" The three men in the hall jumped at the shout. "Hugo," Alice said, voice low, measured. "That woman had been sitting in that cell with minimal outside stimulus, barely any movement at all, and a diet worse than the kind we offer pigs in a slaughterhouse."_

_ "There is nothing to gain from offering suites and grand meals to mere test subjects—"_

_ "Exactly!" Alice exclaimed. "Alscher, every single subject in these cells is barely a cough away from collapsing. Most of them don't even have the strength to lift a finger, let alone attack a guard—why do you think they're not shackled?"_

_ "So?" Alscher demanded._

_ "She was able to break _bone_, Alscher!" Alice snarled, the end of her rope fraying and snapping. "You're trapped in a prison of prejudice and pride, a cage of your own making, keeping you from seeing, let alone reaching, any new potential!"_

_ "How _dare_ you—!" Alscher swelled, cheeks puffing and turning red, bony chest puffing out in indignation. "You—you pathetic child—! You're nothing but a. . . a. . . filthy _rat_, masquerading in an Eldian's suit and skin—!"_

_ "Woah, woah, woah!" Hansel rushed between them, arms held out, as if he were taming two wild, rampaging beasts. "Let's just calm down, now, okay?" He knew that he, built tall and strong from his childhood hoeing the fields with his father, could easily push the both of them away without breaking a sweat, but he knew that that would serve to do nothing more than incense the old man even more. "We can discuss this—"_

_ "Silence, boy!" Alscher roared. "Fools. Fools, both of you! Especially you, you Larkin _whore_—!"_

_ "This 'Larkin whore' just achieved more in half an hour than you have in your whole life, you fucking colonizer!" Alice shouted back, voice rising in volume and pitch. "And if you'd—"_

_ "Listen to her!" Alscher spun to face the soldier. "Can't you hear her? Haven't any of you— 'Colonizer,' she called me!" he shouted. "Colonizer! She speaks in the birdbrain's language, conspiring with a prisoner—"_

_ "The only thing I'm conspiring," Alice yelled, cheeks reddening, "is how far I'm gonna shove your precious scrolls up your goddamn—"_

_ "Alice!" Hansel shouted. "Alscher! Please, we can't—"_

_ "Sergeant Beck!" Alice ignored their shouts, turning her attention to the soldier. "Please—you saw what happened, you _have_ to understand. Tell the—"_

_ "You will tell no one!" Alscher howled. "Report nothing, Sergeant! None of this has any—"_

_ Alice shoved him roughly out of the way with her shoulder. "Tell the King! Tell Conrad—"_

_ "You _will_ speak of the King with respect!" Alscher shouted._

_ "Shut the _fuck_ up, Hugo!" Alice screamed back. "Beck—tell him! Tell him it worked! We _have_ to restart Project Berserker—we have to!" _

XXX

The mug landed back on the table with a _thunk_. "Hey," he called. The bartender glanced up from the little book in his hands, a smoking cigar hanging from his lips. "Pour me another."

The man raised his eyebrows, putting the book down and plucking the cigar out of his mouth. "Don't you think you've had enough?" he asked, pressing the glowing head of the roll into the ashtray, already filled to the brim with crumpled paper and crumbling grey cinders. It went out with a small hiss, slivers of blackened paper flaking away to join the mountain in the tray.

Levi's scowl darknened. "Don't tell me what I want," he growled, letting a harsh, accented edge creep into his tone. The man rolled his eyes, grabbing his mug and dumping it unceremoniously into the washbucket overflowing with empty mugs on the other side of the bar—mostly filled to by Levi, with a few contributions from the round-bellied, balding man sobbing his heart out on the other side of the bar, a lacy, embroidered handkerchief crumpled and tear-stained in one hand.

Levi wrinkled his nose, shifting his weight slightly, crossing his arms on the wooden countertop, taking care not to let any of his exposed skin touch the sticky surface (he'd wiped it down four times since sitting down, but the grime seemed to have a near-sentient hold on the worn wood). He barely spared the bartender a glance as he dropped another mug of foaming beer in front of him. He picked it up, taking a long sip as he fished a coin out from a pocket, finally pulling it out from within the folds of his cloak and sliding it across the grimy counter towards the other man.

He nodded, taking it and flicking it with his thumb. The light in the near-empty bar flashed off the metal as it twisted in the air, glinting one final time before the man snatched it out of the air. Levi huffed, unamused, tipping his head back and downing a good half of the mug.

"So." Levi rolled his eyes as the bartender dropped the coin into the cashbox. "What're you here for?" He leaned against the back counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

Levi scowled, finally turning to look him in the eyes. "What are we, inmates?" he grumbled. "What makes you think I'm here for something?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow, tilting his head towards the bucket of unwashed mugs at his feet. "You've been here for hours, pal," he said. "And, frankly, I'm surprised you haven't dropped dead from all the shit you've been drinking."

"I don't get drunk," Levi muttered, putting the nearly empty mug back down onto the counter, watching the golden surface of the beer ripple as it landed on the surface with a small _thud_.

"I can tell." The bartender tilted his head the other direction, cocking an eyebrow again. "Still. You haven't answered the question." His gaze flicked over the raven-haired man from head to toe, taking him in, eyes lingering for a moment on the coarse brown cloak draped over his shoulders, hiding most of his attire from view. "What happened?" he continued, ignoring Levi's venomous scowl. "Bad day at work? he prompted. "Family argument? Bad breakup?" Levi's glare deepened, and the man put his hands up. "Hey, if it was that, then, trust me, you're not the only one." He gestured at the man on the other side of the bar, still sobbing into his frilly handkerchief. "Nothing wrong with wanting to drown your sorrows for a bit."

"It's not that," Levi grumbled, picking the mug back up.

"_Ohh_." The bartender nodded sagely. "It's politics, then, isn't it?" Levi glared at him over the rim of the mug. "Don't stress, man," he said. "If word gets out that you're not a fan of the new Queen, they didn't hear it from me. 'Sides, you're not the only one," he continued, raising a new cigar to his lips and tearing off the end with his teeth. "I mean, I get that she took down that massive Titan and saved Orvud, but really? The military takes down the government, and, not a week later, they've got one of their own on the throne?" He shook his head, striking a match and lighting the cigar. "All just seems a bit too convenient too me. And did you _see_ those nobles they were dragging down the street? Like a damn parade! If you ask me, this whole thing just stinks of military propagand—"

Levi slammed the mug down on the table so hard that it shuddered, the ancient wood creaking in protest. "Another," he nearly snarled. "And shut your stupid-ass mouth—I don't give a shit about your fucking opinions."

The man stared at him, incredulous, for a moment, seemingly trapped in an internal war, debating whether he should argue back and defend himself, or just turn around and give Levi his drink. Eventually, the smarter side of his brain won over and he turned around, grumbling to himself as he filled the tankard and all but threw it down in front of Levi. The shorter man glared after him as he turned, marching back to his book, giving his retreating back an excellent view of his middle finger.

He scowled, wrinkling his nose as he grabbed a rag from the other side of the counter, wiping away the beer that had sloshed over or run down the sides of the mug and cleaning the flagon and table. He tossed the rag back over the counter, raising the fresh mug to his lips. He winced suddenly, mouth full of beer, and pressed a hand to his forehead as, without warning, a sharp, throbbing pain cut through his skull, making his head pound, and brain throb.

_Damnit_. . . He grimaced, letting his hand fall from his head. _Fuck you, Erwin_.

(The entire building had seemed to shake as Levi threw the door shut, the thin, battered wood shaking in its frame. Erwin had closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly, patiently. "Levi—" he began, attempting, for what felt like the millionth time that hour, to calm the younger man's nerves.

The hinges had screamed as Levi threw the closet door open. A loud _crack_ had torn through the air as the door hit the wall, a long, thin fracture splintering through the wood. "I don't _care_," Levi had snarled, practically ripping his cravat off and slamming it on its shelf. "Save it." He was sure the seam of his coat had torn when he ripped it off, the floor quaking as he stomped over to the coat rack.

"Let me explain—"

"_Explain?_" Levi abandoned his quest to straighten the green fabric, whirling around to face Erwin. "What the hell is there to explain, Erwin?"

"Levi—"

"I don't get it!" Levi had thrown his arms out and ruffled his hair furiously, fingers, hands, arms, entire body shaking as he tousled the silky black strands. "You— He— How could you just _stand_ there?" He had grit his teeth, jaw clenched to the point of soreness. "That bastard—that piece of shit tried to kill you. He fucked the Survey Corps over who knows how many fucking times just for a little extra gold in his goddamned silk purse! And you just _stood there_—"

"We couldn't afford a scene," Erwin had said, voice forcefully calm as he approached Levi, a hand held out, as if it were a rabid alley cat he'd been approaching, not his Captain. "Not there. Levi, please, just listen—"

Levi had jerked as Erwin placed his hand on his shoulder and torn away with a snarl. "No," he had bitten out, running his trembling fingers through his hair, smoothing the disheveled locks. "I don't—" A tingle raced down his spine and he squeezed his eyes shut, temples throbbing.

"Levi." Erwin's hand had been light as he took Levi's arm, leading him to the bed. They had sat down, Levi's hand in Erwin's, the taller man rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over Levi's knuckles. "Levi," Erwin had repeated, voice soft. "Levi, look at me."

Levi had clenched his teeth even tighter, and Erwin sighed, letting go of his hand to run a hand over his jaw. "Levi," he said again. Levi finally twisted his head about to stare the other man in the eyes, glowering with the fury of a thousand suns. "I can—"

"Explain." Levi had closed his eyes, the image of Erwin's deep blue ones seared into the back of his eyelids. "Erwin."

"I—"

"Did you know?"

The room had been completely silent, as was the street outside. The night had been still, not even a warm, summer breeze shaking the shutters or rustling the green-leafed branches of the trees outside. No hoofbeats echoed on cobblestone, all the merchants and travellers having had the good sense to turned in for the night. The rest of the barracks had been silent, all the doors shut tight, candles long extinguished, rooms devoid of any and all movement but the rustling of the bedclothes by the sleeping soldiers' mouths and noses, and the occasional turning of a restless sleeper. Erwin's hand was still on Levi's face, blood thrumming a steady pulse beneath his skin. The pounding of the blood seemed to echo in Levi's ears, roaring, like the waterfall they used to ride over on their way out of Shinganshina. He wasn't sure if he even knew who's blood it was, anymore.

"Did you know?" Levi asked again, voice impossibly quiet. "Erwin—" _Did you know? How long? Why? How? When? _Why?

Erwin had lowered his hand, taking Levi's again. "Less than a week ago," he had said. "They were going over the prison records—"

"The King's council," Levi had muttered.

"The prisons and jails are overflowing." Erwin ran his thumb over Levi's palm. "The Military Police have been macro-managing—"

"When do they ever not?"

"Levi." Erwin had let go of Levi's hand and touched his cheek. "There were dozens of releases over the past week—"

"Petty thieves," Levi had said, not meeting Erwin's eyes. "Drug dealers. Pimps." His lip had curled. "All crimes the MPs see as insignificant. Because, hey, if they didn't kill anyone directly, then they're harmless, right?"

"Levi." Erwin had said again; he'd been repeating his name like a mantra all night. "I'm not any happier about it than you are, but there was little else they could do. They're already stretched thin, what with half their forces behind bars with the noblemen, and, if they don't put them away, they'll just—"

"Fine," Levi had spat, fury rising back onto the surface. "Fine. But who decides? Which fucking dumbass decides who gets let go and who doesn't? And how the hell did _Lobov_ make the list—"

"Levi," Erwin had said, and, sweet Sina, didn't he get tired of that word? "There are only three people alive—" Levi's fingers twitched, "—who know why Lobov visited the Underground six years ago, and two of them are in this room. _Listen_," he had said when Levi made to speak again. "If the MPs had known he'd hired you to kill me, you'd have been hanged the next day."

"And of course you didn't report it," Levi had growled. "Because you're a fucking idiot, and an extra few dead Titans are just that important—"

"It's not just that—"

"Where's Lobov?" Levi had demanded. "Back in his big-ass mansion, rolling around in a pile of gold?"

Erwin had been silent. "You want to go after him." A statement, not a question, as if he could see straight into Levi's mind, picking his way through his thoughts.

"I just want to know." Both men had been silent, boring holes into each other's eyes with their own.

Erwin had dropped his hand. "His sentence was shortened due to good behaviour," he had told him, "and connections with many MPs. As far as I know, he didn't have any heirs, and most of his land and properties were reclaimed by the government. But someone like Lobov. . ."

"At least a million other mansions all over the Walls," Levi had sneered. "Sounds about right." And then, after a moment of silence, "I bet Count Keller knows where he is."

"You're not going after him, Levi." Erwin's voice had been stern. "No, Levi," he interrupted when Levi opened his mouth, eyes cold. "That's an—"

"Fuck that," Levi had hissed, wrenching himself away from Erwin and to his feet. "No, don't," he'd snapped, clenching his teeth to hold back a grimace at the throbbing building up on the inside of his skull. "Just—" He had flexed his hands, fingers curling into and out of fists as he began pacing. "_Stop_."

"Just because we're in a good spot now, doesn't mean we've won," Erwin had snapped, finally expressing his impatience as he stood, looming over Levi. "We've won over the North, but the public—"

"I don't _care_ about the public!" Levi had snarled, turning to glare at Erwin. "I care that the wrinkly old bastard that _took everything away from me_ is walking around in silk robes, nibbling goose liver, and free as a goddamn bird."

Erwin hadn't said anything, content to stand and level Levi with his gaze. "You blame him?" he had finally asked, face a blank mask, voice carefully measured.

Levi had glared at him, eyes narrowing into cold, thin slits. "Don't talk to me like that," he'd said. "I might be your pawn, but I sure as _hell_ ain't one of those fat pigs we still need to schmooze for appearances."

Erwin had closed his eyes and taken a deep, calming breath. "Let's talk about this in the morning," he'd said. "It's late, and we're—"

"No," Levi had hissed, taking a step back, teeth clenched, head pounding so hard he had feared it would explode. "I can't—" His teeth had creaked, jaw tightening against the pain spearing his head like daggers. "If I stay here for _another goddamn second_," he'd spat, "I'm gonna have to break something. And I _really_ don't want either of us to do something we'll regret."

"Levi." Erwin had said, sounding, for the first time in what had probably been years, as if he were pleading.

Levi had turned, ripping the rough brown cloak he still hadn't quite managed to clean the bloodstains out of, but was just too fucking cowardly to throw away, from the coatrack. "No."

The corridors had been empty, the heat absorbed from the sun by the thick stone walls during the day and the few torches that still flickered in their scones making the halls stiflingly hot. The sharp, electric pain that had been tearing through his head, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and every nerve in his body screaming at him, _stop, go back, go to Erwin, stopstopstopstopstop_, had only added to the unpleasantness. The night air, pleasantly still and warm on his face, had been a welcome reprieve. Erwin had been right about one thing—it was late. But despite their constantly shifting world, humanity still had its constants. One of those was that, no matter what, or when, there would always be some poor shit behind a counter, awake and serving drinks to sad old schmucks.

It seemed, tonight, he was the sad old schmuck.)

Levi swallowed his mouthful of beer with a small wince, then quickly gulped down the rest. The bar shuddered as he slammed the mug down, dropping a few small coins next to it. "Keep the change," he muttered, swinging around on the stool and hopping off.

XXX

_There's got to be _something_._ Levi pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek. _There's no way he's just gonna keep his head down. He's. . ._ He scowled, dropping his hands. _Doing something_.

He crossed his arms, frowning at the ground between his feet. _Someone_. . . Someone who knew what Lobov did, who knew where he was, who knew what he was up to—

_There are only three people alive who know why Lobov visited the Underground six years ago_.

Fine, so maybe this would be a bit harder than he imagined. _Fine_. He scowled and closed his eyes, tipping his head back with a groan. Someone who knew Erwin, then—knew Erwin, and where Lobov was, someone who could help him track him down, or convince Erwin—

He opened his eyes. "Nile."

* * *

**_Allons, allons_: There, there**

**_C'est bien_: It's fine**

**_Je vais attendre_: I'll wait**

**_Vas-tu parler?_: Will you speak?**

**_Tu es_: You are**

**_Oui_: Yes**

**_Mon pére. Il est né dans_: My father He was born in**

**_Ta mére?_: Your mother?**

**_Elle est né ici_: She was born here**

**_Ici. . . où?_: Here. . . where?**

**_C'est l'Empire d'Étoile_: This is the Eldian Empire**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Skithra are literally just Racnoss who steal everything instead of eating it, and that's a fact.**

* * *

_Bartholomäus shuddered, wrapping the folds of his heavy woolen cloak tighter around him as a breeze blew by, striking a chill into his bones. The clouds overhead moved sluggishly across the grey sky, dark and heavy with threats of downpour, dragging foreboding black shadows across the sparse land._

_ His teeth chattered and he rubbed his arms as another shiver ran down his spine, gooseflesh pricking beneath his quivering fingers. "Where they not informed that we would be landing today?" he snapped irritably at a nearby soldier, glaring enviously at the thick brown pelt thrown over his armoured shoulders. "What's taking them so long?"_

_ "Weather patterns on the island and sea are unpredictable," the man shrugged, heavy metal plating clanking at the small movement. "Our trip was supposed to take a lot longer than it did."_

_ Bartholomäus scowled, shoving his hands into deep, silken pockets. "What a wasteland," he grumbled, casting a disdainful gaze over the beach of wet grey sand littered with jagged stones and driftwood, and the endless fields of thin, patchy grass. "To think the Council actually considered building a colony here. . ." He snorted, breath misting in a small puff under his nose. "Nothing but rocky shores and dead grass. I bet the soil's full of rocks, too." The soldiers waiting with him were silent, leaving him to stew and mutter in peace._

_ Finally, after what felt like hours, but was probably, in reality, only twenty minutes or so, the roof of a carriage appeared over the crest of a hill on the horizon, and the sound of wheels rattling on uneven ground crept into the air. "Finally," Bartholomäus growled as the uniformed men around him straightened, clasping their hands behind their backs._

_ The carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of him, the wheels grinding unpleasantly against the sand with a wet, crunching noise. Bartholomäus quickly schooled his features into a calm, pleasant mask as the handle rattled and the door swung open._

_ "Lord Althaus, I presume?" The woman was speaking before she'd even fully exited the carriage. She hopped, rather than stepped, out, brushing a mat of pale, almost white, locks from her face before holding her hand out._

_ "Bartholomäus Diefenbach," Bartholomäus said, shaking her hand firmly. "And you must be Lady Baumgärtner." The corner of Bartholomäus's lip curled into a small smile as he turned her hand over, bending over to press a small kiss to it._

_ "Alice Comtois," she corrected, withdrawing her hand and tucking it carelessly into the pocket of her long brown coat. "We'd better go," she said, tilting her head up to glance at the sky, the weak, filtered sunlight making her pallor seem even paler. "I'm sure you're freezing, and you really don't want to be stuck out here when the storm hits."_

_ Bartholomäus, by some minor miracle, managed not to shove her aside and run into the warmth of the carriage, instead letting her enter first before following and sitting across the compartment. "Charming," he commented, nodding at the ornate carvings, dusted with gold, crawling up the walls._

_ Comtois hummed, crossing her legs. "How was the trip?" she asked casually, teasing a few fingers through a tangle in her washed-out curls. "The waves were forgiving, I hope?"_

_ "Surprisingly smooth," Bartholomäus replied, taking the time to loosen his cloak and let it slide from his shoulders into a small heap on the bench next to him. "I've heard horror stories about the waters—I'm glad the sea was gentle today."_

_ "You were lucky," Comtois said, lowering her hand. Bartholomäus glanced at the other one, resting carefully in her lap, bandaged from the wrist to the tips of her fingers, before returning his attention to her face._

_ Bartholomäus settled on nodding. "Enough about that," he said, leaning back in his seat. "Tell me about yourself, Dr. Comtois. Just how does a genetic researcher holed away in the caves of a far-off island get the King to send her as many resources as she wishes with just a single letter?" He smiled what he hoped passed as a charming, friendly grin, and not a mocking leer._

_ He wasn't sure he succeeded. Comtois's eyes seemed to narrow by a fraction as she glanced up from examining her chipped, bitten-to-the-quick nails. "We've met in the past," she said after a second that seemed to last an eternity, eyes blank and unrevealing. "My mother entertained him a few times at her estate when he was younger, before his coronation, and we once shared a box at the opera."_

_ Bartholomäus made a non-committal noise, nodding. "I see." He pulled a fine red curtain, trimmed in gold, away to watch the wilted grasslands pass by. "Dismal," he muttered under his breath._

_ "It's not so bad," Comtois said, following his gaze. He jumped; he didn't think she'd have heard him speak. "It's ideal for the kind of research we're doing."_

_ "Isolated," Bartholomäus guessed. "I must admit that I don't know the specifics of what you're doing here, but I know it's dangerous."_

_ "Well," Comtois cracked a faint smile, "that makes two of us. It's not as if we have a set plan—we've been making much of this up as we go along."_

_ "An occupational hazard when one ventures into the unknown." Bartholomäus returned the smile. "Admirable, though. Because, Doctor, if what you wrote to His Majesty was true—not that I doubt you, of course—then what you've achieved here could mark a turning point in the war."_

_ "Not just the war." Comtois tilted her head back, closing sunken, shadowed eyes and letting the back of her head rest against the wall of the carriage. "Trust me, Dr. Diefenbach, when I say I have no interest in who wins or loses this petty series of fights—oh, don't look so surprised," she added, lifting her head and glancing at his expression of wide-eyed shock. "You've clearly heard of me, and you may well be the closest person to the King in all of Eldia. You have to know my reputation."_

_ "I—well, yes." Bartholomäus cleared his throat, tugging at his collar. "I just didn't expect you to be so. . . _on-the-nose_ about it. Blunt."_

_ Comtois shrugged. "Well," she sat up, crossing her arms, "I was. And it was true. The only reason I'm here is because this work was too important for even me to pass up. I was doomed for the military, anyways—why not make it worthwhile?"_

_ "I see." The rattling of the wheels had quieted. Bartholomäus pulled the curtain aside again to see the carriage wheeling down a flattened dirt path, lined on both sides with soldiers, standing ramrod-straight, hands resting on the hilts of their blades._

_ "We're here." Comtois stood, opening the door with her good hand. "Well, Doctor. . ." She stepped out of the carriage in a fluid motion, keeping the door open for Bartholomäus to step through. "Ready to get to work?"_

_ And she smiled, cold and cruel, like a snake, eyes like shards of frozen flint, and Bartholomäus shuddered._

XXX

The girl took a shaky breath, wiping her sweaty palms on the front of her uniform pants. She left her fingers on her knees, tapping them anxiously underneath the polished desk. "Sir," she repeated, looking up at the plainclothesed soldier in front of her. "I _really_ can't, I'm sorry. Even if Commander Dok were in, I couldn't get him for you. The protocols—"

"Fuck your protocols." Levi scowled at the shaking, pale-faced girl behind the front desk. _How the hell did this one get into the MPs?_ "I've _shown_ you my ID." He waved the crumpled, yellowing certificate in front of her face.

"I _know_ who you are," she said, a bit more forcefully as he stuffed the paper carelessly into a back pocket. "Sir," she added quickly. "But I can't let you in. You're not an MP—"

"And thank Rose for that," Levi grumbled, grip tightening on the desk. "Look, I'm going to say it again: I need to speak with Commander Nile Dok about one of the recently released prisoners. _Urgently_," he added.

"I'm _sorry_." The girl looked close to tears. "But Commander Dok specifically requested he not be disturbed this morning. It's been a hard couple of weeks—"

"Yeah, sure." _Sina's tits, these paper pushers_. Levi, patience at its end, marched around the desk.

"Sir!" the girl protested, sweat pouring down her face.

"You won't get in trouble," Levi bit over his shoulder, grabbing the thin bell-wire, neatly labelled _Commander_, and yanked on it with such force that it nearly snapped. He gave it a couple extra tugs, the thin cord digging into his skin, before letting go.

"Sir!" The Captain ignored the recruit's shouts as he turned, shoved open the swinging doors marked _Personnel Only_, and marched down the hall.

The girl groaned, putting her face in her hands. _I'm so fired_.

XXX

Nile jumped in his seat, yelping as scalding tea spilled down his front, the clanging of the bell hanging in the corner of the ceiling (how could something so small be so loud?) crashing through the peaceful silence of the office. He swore, carefully putting down the—now empty—china cup and digging through his pockets for a handkerchief. He let out a moan of dismay, face falling, as he extracted the sopping scrap of fabric from inside his jacket.

He was still mopping up the spilt tea from his uniform and forlornly wringing it into the teacup, skin burning beneath layers of fabric, when the door crashed open. He jumped again, a litany of curses falling from his lips. "By the Goddesses—"

"Morning, Nile." He scowled, tossing the soggy handkerchief onto the table. "No, don't do that, it'll stain."

Nile sighed, running a hand over his face. "I assume it was you who pulled the bell?" he asked, voice muffled by his palm over his mouth.

The chair in front of his desk creaked as the younger man leaned on the armrest, crossing his arms. "I need to talk to you."

"Whatever Erwin wants," Nile mumbled into his hand, "I haven't got the time right now—" Levi scoffed loudly. Nile lifted his hand, shooting him an exhausted glare. "And tell him that, if he really wants anything done, he'll have to come himself, instead of sending his lapdo—"

"It's not Erwin."

Nile groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Levi, as surprising as it might be to you, I really _don't_ want to sit here listening to you critiquing my life choices for the next hour—"

"Believe it or not, Nile, I'm not here on a social call," Levi interrupted. "Close enough to official business to be considered professional, actually."

Nile looked up at him, eyelids swollen from lack of sleep, heavy bags under his eyes to match the Captain's own. He sat up straight with a sigh, tugging off his tea-stained jacket and tossing it over the back of his chair. "Anything I can get you?" he asked wearily, giving the front of his shirt a final rub before abandoning the cause for good. "Tea?" He nodded at the cooling pot on the edge of his desk. "Water? Biscuit?"

Levi wrinkled his nose, sliding into the seat and crossing his legs. "Nah," he muttered, reaching out to pull the pot away from the edge.

Nile squinted slightly at him, realizing, for the first time, his lack of uniform; gone was the cravat, leaving him in just a white shirt and a pair of worn black pants in place of pressed white breeches, a worn, threadbare mantle replacing brown jacket and thick green cloak. He also caught the faint smell of alcohol lingering around him. "Are you drunk?" he asked.

"No," said Levi.

_Fine._ Nile sighed. "Alright. What is it that you wanted to talk about?"

Levi tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk for a moment, eyes focused on the tips of his fingers as they rapped out a quick, repetitive rhythm. "What was Nicholas Lobov arrested for?" he asked.

"What?"

"Are you deaf?" Levi scowled. "What was Nicholas—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard that part." Nile scowled. "Levi, I don't have time to dig up these records for you—"

"Just off the top of your head, then," Levi said.

"Uh—" Nile squeezed his eyes shut, head throbbing from hours of lost sleep. "Nicholas Lobov. . . minor lord, owned a few estates in Sina and Rose. Fortune grown mostly off careful sponsorships and stock purchases. . ." He massaged the bridge of his nose. "He was put away for embezzlement, if I recall. Something to do with the Lindenberg Company. . ?"

"Lang," Levi corrected.

"Yeah, the Lang Comp—" Nile's eyes flew open. "Wh—you already know this! Why're you—"

"He wasn't."

"What?"

"Is your hearing going, or something?" Levi rolled his eyes. "God, I hope I don't live to be your age. He wasn't arrested for embezzlement. I mean, _yes_, it was embezzlement, but he was only caught because of something else."

Nile narrowed his eyes slightly. Dirty dealing and under-the-table deals were things he had, unfortunately, grown used to as his career progressed—even more so in the past few weeks—but. . . "How could you possibly know that?" he asked. "Weren't you still Underground when they were building the case against Lobov?"

Levi leaned back in his seat, transferring the tapping to the armrest. "I. . ." he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, thinking. "I know a bit about it," he finally said. "Erwin," he added, as if that would make the whole thing magically make sense. Nile raised an eyebrow.

"Erwin found out about the embezzlement. And Lobov. . ." Levi trailed off, frowning. _How the hell do I say this?_

Nile's eyebrows crept up by the fraction of an inch as the realization settled in his mind. "Lobov donated a bunch of money to the Scouts," he recalled. "A huge, sudden shift in favour. Erwin," he said. "He blackmailed him, didn't he?" Levi made a noncommittal noise, scratching idly at the polished armrest of his seat. "But it didn't work," he guessed. He sighed. There was a stinging pressure building up behind his eyes, and he was sure he'd be nursing a monstrous headache later.

"Oh, it worked." Levi huffed humourlessly. "Erwin got his Expedition. But Lobov wasn't happy about. _Obviously_."

"Obviously," Nile mimicked under his breath, rolling his eyes. Levi glared back at him. "I still don't understand why you had to barge into my office about this," he said.

"Lobov's a shit," Levi said, leaning forwards, gripping the desk between them. "A _big_ shit. There's no way he wouldn't want to get revenge on Erwin."

"Why are you so sure about this?" Nile asked. "And, besides, if you're so worried about Erwin and Lobov, shouldn't that be something the Corps handles?"

"Lobov was talking to Erwin at that ball last night," Levi pressed. "He was with a bunch of those wrinkly old asses who've jumped the Survey Corps bandwagon. Y'know, in light of all of their old pals being in the slammer and all."

"Okay," Nile held his hands up placatingly. "_Okay_. I get why you think that's suspicious, but, again, I don't know what you want me to do. I can't just arrest Lobov because you don't like him."

"It's not—" Levi ground his teeth, the rhythm of his fingers' tapping picking up. "What if you had proof?" he asked. "Like. . . like. . . I don't know," he dragged a nail across the surface of the desk, "proof that he was doing something? Something illegal?"

"We don't have the resources to spare to run an investigation right now," Nile sighed. "Half our forces are, as you put it, 'in the slammer,' and those remaining are all out calming riots, or up to their ears in paperwork."

Levi made a half-snarl, half-groan noise. "_Anything_?" he asked. "Don't you have, like, surveillance protocols on new releases?"

"That's classified—"

"_Nile_," Levi said, louder.

Nile held his gaze for a moment before sighing. "Yeah." He nodded at the door. "They should all be filed in the recent archive—"

"Great," Levi interrupted. "Where is it?"

"I can't just _let you in_—"

"Two hours," said Levi. "Just two. Two hours with your files, and I'll be out of your hair." Nile didn't respond. "_Nile_," Levi as good as beseeched.

Nile groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and resting his elbows on the desk. Levi very nearly smiled.

XXX

Erwin woke to a sore back that burnt like the corpses of the fallen and a throbbing ache where his right arm had once been. He sat up slowly, grimacing as he tilted his head back and forth, listening to the _crick-crackle-pop_ of his neck that was his consequence for falling asleep so late in such an uncomfortable position.

Erwin didn't remember going to sleep, and, since he was still in his dress uniform from last night, he felt it was safe to assume Levi hadn't returned. He looked forlornly down at his clothes, letting out a small sigh at the sight of the wrinkles folded into his shirt and pants and the scuffs on the toes of his shoes.

He shrugged off the long green coat, letting it pile on the ground next to his feet. He worked the buttons free of their eyes as he made his way across the room to the wardrobe, kicking the coat along; he'd gotten quite good at it in the months after being released from the hospital, but it was still a task that required more than a bit of his attention. His shirt was off a minute later, and, after a brief struggle between his fingers, the teeth, and his right sleeve, so was the pin. The sleeve unfurled, wrinkled from its time folded against the stump of Erwin's arm. He bent down, tucking the shirt between his knees, freeing his hand to open the door.

He paused for a moment, running his fingers over the hairline crack in the wood. _Levi_. . . He closed his eyes, memories of Levi, an argument, and Nicholas Lobov flickering through his mind. He grimaced, quickly moving his fingers away from the crack and opening the door.

He was about to hang his clothes up when he paused, eyes falling on a folded scrap of worn white fabric. He dropped his shirt, grabbing it and holding it up. Levi's cravat hung, limply from his fingers. A quick glance through the hangers confirmed that his jacket and cloak were still there, too.

He frowned. _Levi?_

* * *

**I wanted for this to be longer, but I really couldn't figure out what to write next, so this is going to have to do.**


	4. Chapter 4

_"I haven't opened it." Bartholomäus reached beneath his cloak, untying the silk bag hanging from his belt. "The King wouldn't tell me what was in it, either. I expect you requested it, though?" He loosened the string, carefully sliding out the walnut box, far heavier than its small size suggested, and laid it gingerly on the table._

_ She hummed in confirmation, running thin fingers—steady, despite their frail appearance—over the lid of the box. "Yeah." A fingertip, skin dry and chewed, nail chipped and bitten, traced the polished golden latch of the lid. She flicked it up, swift and unexpectedly, a loud _crack_ bouncing off the stone walls as the latch snapped against the heavy wood. Bartholomäus jumped. Brittle nails wedged into the crack of the lid and Comtois lifted it._

_ Batholomäus inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring as he stared at the contents of the box in alarm. "Doctor—!"_

_ She plucked a wax-sealed bottle from the folds of crimson lining the inside of the box, turning it in front of the flickering golden flame of a candle. "I assume you know what it is, then, doctor?" Her flinty eyes, a dull grey in the shadows of the underground, were fixed on the fluid in the bottle: somewhere between runny and viscous, transparent when it wasn't rippling with violet and periwinkle, glinting with a sheen like a pool of spilt oil._

_ "That's spinal fluid," Batholomäus said, voice faint. The lab was surely spinning around him, the floor whirling up to replace the ceiling, and the ceiling on the wall. _"Titan_ spinal fluid." A hand, hanging limply at his side, twitched, as if to reach for the vial. "Doctor—"_

_ "Yes?"_

_ Batholomäus gulped, staring at the bottle. "Should you—" He cleared his throat, coughing into his fist. "You should put that down." She stared at him, eyes like shattered globes of glass, too big by far for the pinched, pale face. "It's—"_

_ "I can handle it," she said, voice slow, words defined, with the air of explaining one plus two is three to someone particularly dim. "His Majesty clearly trusted me with it."_

_ Bartholomäus suddenly found his lips to be very dry and he wet them, eyes still fixed on the bottle. _Why_, he wanted to ask_. Why did he give that to you. Why do you have that. Why does he trust you. Why do you stare at it like it's the Holy Grail why do you want it why does he know you why do you look like death why do you look at everything like a specimen on a slide why do I want to run and stay at the same time whywhy_why_.

_Instead, he asked, "Can I. . ?"_

_ She turned the bottle in her fingers (Bartholomäus flinched, half-expecting it to slip from between the twiglike digits and shatter on the ground) and held it out to him, two fingers pinched around the neck. He jerked when she pressed it into his palm; her fingers were cold, like icicles twining around his. He stared blankly down at their interlocked hands, the coolness of the bottle pressed beneath their palms biting into his skin like a blazing shard of frozen hellfire._

_ And then she was releasing his hand, turning away and leaving him with a bottle of the beast itself in his hand. "I think," she said, dropping down into a chair at another desk and crossing her legs, "that I've found another use for it."_

_ He tore his eyes away from the bottle—impossibly small, terrifyingly unassuming, _deadly_—and forced himself to focus on her face. "Pardon?"_

_ A flicker of irritation crossed her face. "Do you even know why you're here, doctor?" she demanded, cracked lips curling into a small scowl. "Surely you've _some_ idea."_

_ "Right, yes." He shook his head, then nodded, and shook his head again. "Of course. Sorry." He rolled the bottle around in his palm, shifting his weight awkwardly. "The test subject, right?" he asked. "A survivor. A success?"_

_ Comtois dragged her fingers down the spines of a towering stack of journals on her desk. She slid one, bound in cracked leather the colour of dried mud and stained with water rings, from the middle of the pile and held it out at him. "It's all in here," she said. "I've marked the more important points."_

_ "Right." Bartholomäus carefully laid the vial back in its nest of silk and took the book. A thought struck him and his fingers faltered. "Are you sure you want to show me all of this?" he asked. "I mean, this is your private—"_

_ "Nothing in my life is private." Comtois gently closed the box, latched it, and slid it inside her coat. "And knowledge is meant for sharing, isn't it?"_

_ Bartholomäus fingered the fraying cord wrapped around the journal. "If you're sure," he finally said. He gave it a sharp tug and it fell loose, falling to the desk._

XXX

There were many entrances Levi could have used: there was the main one, the one he'd first walked through, all those years ago, but it was guarded night and day, on both sides, by both the Military Police and their. . . less savory counterparts—out of the question. There were the lesser-known side tunnels littered throughout the Capital, with the long, snaking tunnels, and steep, cramped staircases, almost all of them collapsed (which, really, he reflected, was partially his fault, so he wasn't really in any position to bitch about it.) If he really was trying to be completely inconspicuous, he always could have tried another route—gone to find the old pit, maybe, or tried to find a surface entrance to one of the fabled catacombs. But, as things were, he really didn't have either the time—or patience—to do that.

Which was how, not two hours after leaving the MP archives with more than his fair share of files shoved into his shirt, Levi found himself crouched at the end of an alley, banging at a metal grate like a man half mad.

He swore as, for what felt like the millionth time in less than a minute, his blade screeched, and he stumbled backwards, glaring at the grate. "Oh, so Titan skin's not a problem," he grumbled, sheathing his sword, "but a fucking sewer is?"

He scowled and struck out at the grate with his foot. It creaked loudly and he kicked it again, and again, and again, until, finally, with a _sreech_ of metal on stone that set his teeth on edge and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, it gave. He grabbed the metal bars, shivering at the feeling of rust and mud and goddesses know what else (he had a guess, but didn't want to dwell on it) beneath his fingers, and, with a final, sharp twist and a grunt, ripped it free.

He crouched and looked down into the sewer, gauging its depth. It was shallow enough, bur still deep, the floor almost eight feet below the street, though it was, blessedly, dry.

_Dry_ does not, unfortunately, equate clean, though. Levi grimaced at the sight of remnants of filth and muck streaking the walls (it hadn't so much as drizzled for a good number of days, and what the last rainfall hadn't washed away remained.) He sniffed and wrinkled his nose as a foul, almost rancid, smell wafted up to him: piss and shit, the sour stench of stagnant water and death, and dank, sour air—the distinct scent of the Underground. He grimaced.

"Home sweet home," he muttered before leaping down into the confining darkness.

XXX

They were dying.

This was not their opinion. It was fact.

The wind howled outside, and each tiny, individual pane of glass in the window rattled, threatening to fall from the grilles and explode into a million sparkling dewdrops of light—dewdrops of light that would, no doubt, send their headache spiraling even more.

A noise like a cannon ripped through the air and they whimpered, clutching their head even tighter. This, it turned out, was the wrong decision. Every movement—the turn of their head, the twitch of an ear, even _blinking_—made the world spin and their stomach turn, and their throat burned when they groaned.

Poison, a (as of now) lucid part of their mind supplied helpfully (It was a fairly extraordinary mind, they thought. At least, they thought so. It was getting increasingly difficult to think straight—or at all.) They had been poisoned. It was the only explanation.

The cannon-noise sounded again and they groaned, dropping their head onto the table. Bad decision, again. Now they were even _more_ nauseous, and they were pretty sure they'd just dislodged their brain. And, just to add insult to injury, their forehead was throbbing, too.

"Squad Leader!" They groaned, covering their head. "Squad Leader, are you in there?"

They made a noise that, had they been a bit less _dying_, would have been a string of words that could have made the most calloused blacksmith blush. As it were, what came out of their mouth was, instead, an unintelligible string of sounds, with a striking resemblance to those of a strangled toad. They swung their arm, and winced at the tinkling shatter of glass that rang through the room.

"Squad Leader!" There was a crash, and they groaned as light flooded the room. "Are you al—oh."

"It's come for me," Hange moaned, covering their eyes. "It's here, Moblit. They've come to get me."

"Who, Squad Leader?" Moblit asked, tiptoeing around the shattered flasks on the ground. Shame, about those, the lucid part of Hange's mind thought idly. They'd have to wait to get more, now. Though, with Historia on the throne now, they might arrive sometime sooner than next year. . .

"I've been poisoned," Hange groaned. The light was filtering in through the cracks between their fingers, and they squeezed their eyes shut. "Poison, Moblit! I've been poisoned!"

"Squad Leader, you're hungover."

"I can see them now," Hange said, pressing their hands tighter over their eyes. "They're here. Right in front of me, I can see them!"

"Who?"

"Death!" Hange shrieked. "The Sensenmann! Mephistopheles! Father Time's best friend! They're here!"

"That's my shadow, Squad Leader."

"Oh." Hange moved their hands away from their face. "Well." They blinked in the bright sunlight, squinting up at Moblit, silhouetted against it like an angel. _A dark angel_, they thought. _A dark angel of hangovers and overtime_. "What's up, Moblit?" The sudden urge to yawn hit them, and they did. "Got a flask?" they asked cheerily. "Hair of the dog, or. . . something."

"Not right now, Squad Leader," said Moblit, taking their arm and pulling them to their feet. They stretched, grimacing as their back popped. _Shit, we're getting old_. "It's the Commander, sir," he said. "He's looking for you."

Hange squinted at them. "Why would he be doing that?" They realized, belatedly, that Moblit was blurry, and patted the top of their head, feeling for their glasses.

"Not sure, Squad Leader. Didn't ask."

Hange groaned, and Moblit shrugged sympathetically as he helped them wriggle into their jacket. "Fine," they said. "_Fine_. Fine. Anything else?"

"Pants, Squad Leader."

"Oh, yeah."

XXX

"Quiet, today," Jean commented.

"What?"

"Quiet." Jean smacked Sasha's wandering hand away from his porridge. "It's quiet, this morning."

"It really isn't," said Eren.

"That's just 'cause you can't hear anything over the sound of your stupid ego," said Jean. Eren kicked him under the table and Jean kicked back. "And it _is_. Half the mess hall's empty."

"There was that party, last night," said Connie through a mouthful of beans. He swallowed. "Hangovers, am I right?" He wiggled his eyebrows—or, at least, tried to.

"You don't drink, Connie," Eren reminded him. "Ale doesn't count."

"Empty mess hall's not weird," said Sasha, popping a chunk of bread into her mouth. "You know what _is_, though?"

"You?"

She lobbed a piece of bread at him, then snatched it back before it fell to the table. She dunked it into her porridge and took a bite, and Jean fake-gagged. "Head table," she said, gesturing at the front of the room. "Empty."

The others followed his finger. It was true.

"Okay, that is weird," Connie agreed.

Armin shrugged. "Maybe they're hungover, too."

"The Captain?" Eren scoffed. "Hungover? When pigs fly, maybe."

"What?" Sasha stared at him as if he'd just grown a second head (which, thinking about it now, _could_ he?).

"Why does it matter?" asked Mikasa. "It's an off day, isn't it?"

"Maybe they're having a meeting," said Jean. "Or still asleep?"

"I don't think I've _ever_ seen the Captain sleep," said Eren.

"Maybe they're having a private breakfast," said Sasha. "With huge bowls of oatmeal, and fruit!" She smacked her lips, face twisting in longing and envy. "And yummy little cakes, and hot milk, and— and _bacon_, and—"

"Think they'd give us some?" Connie wondered, wiping away a line of drool.

"They're not having _private breakfast_," Jean sneered. "Are you insane? Wait—forget it. Of course you are."

Sasha's retort was cut off by a loud _thud_. Jean whirled around just in time to see a bird sliding slowly down the outside of the window, wings and spindly little legs splayed out against the glass. Jean realized his hand had flown to his hip (no ODM—why would he be wearing it now?) and let it drop, and his breath out in a long _whoosh_.

"It's a pigeon," said Connie.

"We fucking _know_ that," Jean snarled, heartbeat still racing.

Eren swung a leg over the side of the bench and stood, crossing over to the window in a few quick strides. He unlatched it and glanced down. The pigeon lay on its back on the ground below, twitching faintly. He leaned out and down, reaching for the bird.

"Careful," said Mikasa automatically, "Eren."

Eren allowed himself a small scowl as he scooped it up and returned to the table. The bird lay in his hand, and, had it been human, Eren would have scolded it for being dramatic. Its wings were still flopping weakly, legs jerking erratically, and he could have sworn that its eyes were rolling in its sockets.

"Stupid bird," Jean grumbled, shifting his bowl closer towards himself. "It's not gonna shit all over the table, is it?" Eren quickly adjusted his grip, holding it further away from himself.

"It's got a message," Armin noticed. He untied the folded square from the bird's leg.

Eren frowned at the bird. "I think it's dead," he said, poking it in the chest. Yeah, its tongue was definitely hanging out. Eren hadn't even known that birds _had_ tongues.

"Who's the note for?" asked Sasha.

"I—" Armin frowned down at the scrap of paper in his hands. "I don't know. I can't

read it."

"What?" Connie stared at Armin.

"It's not in the Common Tongue," said Armin, turning the paper to show them. "I don't even think these are words."

Mikasa took the paper. It was covered in lines of. . . she wanted to say symbols, but she wasn't sure. Sharp curves and slashes of ink moved across the surface of the paper like an army of ants following a trail of spilt honey, but she couldn't make out a single word of it—if that was even what they were.

"Code?" Eren suggested, looking over her shoulder.

"I don't think it's for us," said Mikasa.

"Maybe it's for the Commander," said Armin. He was staring at the note, brow furrowed thoughtfully.

"Secret meeting?" Connie suggested, chewing absently on the end of his spoon. "Theirs, I mean."

"Maybe. We should bring it to him, anyways." Jean glanced at the bird still hanging from Eren's hand, scowling. "Can you get rid of that thing?" he demanded. "Before it starts stinking up the whole place."

Eren rolled his eyes but marched over to the window anyways. He held the bird out with both hands and, with much pomp and circumstance, threw it up into the open sky. It sailed for a few feet before plummeting back to the ground, landing with a burst of feathers and high-pitched screech from a passing civilian.

Armin winced, and Jean rolled his eyes. "Stupid bird," he grumbled.

XXX

"Commander!" Hange sang, throwing the door open. "Forgive the tardiness, sir!" They saluted sloppily, grinning. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a bottle 'round here, would you? Just a little sip, to ease me off this _killer_ headache, ya know? Gotta say, I'm not jealous of you for many things, but your metabolism is something I'd _kill_ for—"

Erwin turned around. "Levi's gone."

"_What_."

XXX

_Comtois hummed as she worked—a folk song, Bartholomäus thought, or a Western chant, perhaps. She tapped brittle, skeletal fingers against her desktop with one hand, the other moving a pen slowly across a fresh page in her journal._

_ Bartholomäus closed his eyes for a second, gathering his patience. Comtois chose that exact moment to throw tongue-clucking into the mix._

_ "Doctor," said Bartholomäus. "Could you—_please_—stop that."_

_ Comtois didn't look up at him, or even pause in her work, but she did stop. They continued working in silence for a few minutes before Bartholomäus spoke up again. "Doctor," he said. "If I may—your associates—"_

_ "Konstantin," said Comtois, twirling a ragged look of hair around a finger. "And Alscher."_

_ "Yes," said Bartholomäus. "Them. Where are they, exactly?"_

_ "Konstantin's in one of the labs, down in the Northern tunnels," said Comtois, eyes still fixed on her journal. "That's his chair you're in, by the way." Bartholomäus nodded, but made no attempt to move. "Alscher is fishing."_

_ Bartholomäus let out a bark of laughter. "You're joking," he said. _"Fishing_?" he said in disbelief when Comtois shook her head. "Here? Where? Not in the sea, surely—an old man like him, he'd be swept away before the water even reached his ankles."_

_ The corner of Comtois's lip twitched slightly. "The island isn't all rocks," she said. "There's a forest not too far from here, and a stream running through it. Beyond that, there's mountains, and, beyond there. . ." She shrugged._

_ Bartholomäus shook his head. "It says a lot," he said, "about a place, when you're given all the resources in the world, and choose to stay hidden beneath the earth."_

_ "Maybe so," said Comtois. "But not here, I don't think. We've seen smoke, before, rising up somewhere between the hills and the plains beyond them. Konstantin suspects a village."_

_ "A village?" Bartholomäus laughed again. "Of what? Rats and beached fish?"_

_ "People, I should think," said Comtois drily._

_ "Eldian?" Bartholomäus asked. "Settlers?"_

_ A flash of irritation crossed Comtois's sallow face. "For all we know, they could be Cortésian." She scratched something out in her book. "Or natives."_

_ Bartholomäus laughed. "I highly doubt that," he said. "What poor sod would choose to live here?"_

_ If looks could kill, Bartholomäus would have been facing divine judgement. Thankfully, he had already turned away, and didn't notice the daggers Comtois was staring into the side of his head. "Choice," she said. "Funny word, that."_


	5. Chapter 5

_His hair was getting long._

_He wished he had thought to tie it up earlier. The winds were strong, stronger than usual, and he'd never really wanted to know what his curls tasted like._

_Beside him, Alice shielded her eyes against the midday sun. "Here they come," she said._

_The first rowboat was making its way to the beach. If Hansel strained his ears, he could almost hear the splash of the oars against the crash of waves and howling wind and seabirds overhead. He squinted, and just barely made out a sailor at the helm, and the prisoners packed in like sardines. Beyond that, the ship bobbed on the waves, rocking back and forth and side to side. He wondered if the sailors were sliding around on the deck like loose marbles, or if they'd grabbed onto the cannons, or the gunnels. Or did the cannons roll, too?_

_Up the mast, the King's flapping pennant and the Eldian star had gotten knotted up. There were two sailors untangling them, one on their tiptoes in the crow's nest, and the other hanging precariously from a beam. Hansel wondered if it would be more painful to land on the deck from that height, or the sea._

_ "__I see them," said Hansel. "All cherry-picked to your specifications, I presume?"_

_ "__Not quite," said Alice. "I just told them to give me a random selection. No clue who's on those boats."_

_Hansel snorted. "'Course," he said. "That sounds about right. How's it going with Donadieu, anyways? You haven't spoken of it for a while."_

_ "__Around Alscher?" said Alice. "Are you mad? If I have to listen to him speak of my people like that for—"_

_Hansel nudged her. "Careful," he said. The wind was strong enough, and the soldiers standing far enough away that he doubted they'd heard her, but extra caution had never caused anyone any harm._

_(Except for the head of the household guard, back home on his mother's estates. So paranoid that someone would sneak over the crest of the hill and into the house that he'd slept with his arms wrapped around his rifle. An admirable precaution, until he'd rolled over it one night, and the buttons of his nightshirt had gotten caught on the trigger. But that was a special case.)_

_ "__I am careful, Konstanin," said Alice._

_ "__You don't act it," said Hansel._

_ "__It's tiresome, in the tunnels," said Alice, "and I grow weary of this bullshit."_

_ "__We all do," said Hansel. "But at least you've something to do." _Without me._ "Go on, then," he said as the boat reached the beach. He could see the prisoners more clearly now—bound and shaved, in identical garb. He couldn't have picked an individual from the crowd if his life depended on it. "Tell me about your secret project."_

_She rolled her eyes. "It's hardly secret," she said._

_ "__Private, then," said Hansel. There was a splash as the sailor leapt from the boat, and soldiers began filing past. Hansel glanced up. The second boat was making its way to shore. "We're meant to be working together, Comtois," he said, with only a hint of bitterness._

_Alice tucked her hands into her pockets. "I've some ideas," she said, "but nothing's ironclad. It's all experimental. Literally." She huffed at her own joke. "For now, I'm thinking of making a greater sample size."_

_ "__Repeating the experiments?" The sailor marched up the beach, and thrust a sheaf of papers at Hansel. "Thanks." She ignored him. He didn't take it personally—they were used to it._

_ "__Yeah," said Alice. "There's always the possibility that Donadieu was a fluke, but I'd rather it not. Still, we need to see."_

_ "__We," Hansel muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "What does Lord Althaus think?" he asked._

_ "__Give me that," said Alice, taking the papers from Hansel. "Dr. Diefenbach," she said, "is skeptical. But he believes there's a chance that a pre-existing condition might have reacted with the serum."_

_Hansel scowled. "Plausible," he admitted grudgingly. "A mutation in the genes?"_

_ "__Precisely."_

_ "__What do you think it is?" asked Hansel. "Blood disease? Brain abnormality?"_

_ "__Or perhaps something we can't even see," said Alice, skimming through the papers. "These really should be conversations reserved for the laboratory, Dr. Konstatin," she said._

Conversations I'd be happy to have, if you were ever _in_ the laboratory. _"What have we got?" he asked, leaning over Alice's shoulder._

_Alice flicked his hair out of the way. He tucked it behind his ear, and it fell back over his face. "Eldian prisoners," she said with a small scowl, flipping through the pages faster than Hansel could read through them. "Too many. A few from Hizuru, I think." She glanced at him. "Vorosovs."_

_He kept his face blank. "So?"_

_She shrugged. "Nothing." There was a loud clap of paper as she snapped back to the first page. "Stole from the King, poisoned a well, fucked a pig—"_

_ "__Yikes," muttered Hansel. "Maybe steer clear of the pig-fucker, yeah?"_

_ "__Oink," said Alice, and Hansel laughed. "Alright, fine," she said. "I'll take the two captured Hizuru generals, then. Start of small. And, here—" She pointed at a name lower down the list. "Eldian, from a village in the Northern tribes. Stole seven horses."_

_ "__You always pick the fun ones," said Hansel drily. He frowned down at the paper. "Ackerman. That's not a common name, is it?"_

Jean had been elected to bring the message to the Commander. Because of course he had.

He shot another glance down at the message in his hands as he rounded a corner. If you could even call it that. Jean trusted Armin on most things—Titans, tactics, which fruits were ripe and which ones weren't—and, if he thought the scribbles were a message, he was willing to think it was possible. Still, he couldn't help but feel ridiculous as he jogged up a set of stairs, taking them two at a time.

He flipped the paper upside-down, then around again, as if that would lend some comprehension to the maybe-words. A bubble of frustration welled in his stomach, and he scowled, shoving the paper into a deep pocket.

"Stupid," he growled, stomping down the hall. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_." A passing officer shot him an alarmed look. Jean ignored him.

_Some drunk probably thought it'd be a good prank_, Jean thought, fists tightening in his pockets. _Or a lazy son of a bitch giving the dumb bird a sheet of scrap parchment instead of a letter. Or maybe the dumb bird was so goddamn fucking stupid it couldn't even get itself to the right place_.

XXX

He'd reached the Commander's door. Plain and simple, one of its hinges just a bit more rusted than the other, with not even a nameplate to distinguish it from the rest lining the hall. Sasha, he remembered, had been appalled that someone as distinguished as the _Commander_ would have an office just as shitty as everyone else. Connie has suggested that it was bigger on the inside, and Jean had kicked him.

He raised his fist, ready to knock (carefully—the door was infamous for the killer splinters it gave), then paused. He frowned, and turned his head.

There was a faint, murmuring buzz coming from behind the door that was either a very quiet conversation or a very loud bee. Jean hesitated for a moment then leaned in, pressing his ear against the wood (carefully, again—if the door creaked and they opened it, he might just die from embarrassment. And he really didn't want a splinter in his ear, either.)

He caught the tail end of something said in a voice that he probably could have placed better if he weren't trying to listen through an inch of wood. ". . . have gone?"

"Sina." The Commander's voice, for sure. His voice kept rising and falling, and Jean could imagine him pacing back and forth, lips pursed in frustration about. . . something. "Mitras, probably. As a starting point, at least." A brief pause. "After that. . . I don't know."

Jean wavered for a moment, torn. The crumbled-up ball of paper, which now seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, burned in his pocket, and he began edging himself away from the door. Then the other person began speaking again, and Jean found his ear pressed against the door again, stomach flip-flopping only mildly.

"Right." _Hange_, Jean realized. He shifted a bit, getting into a more comfortable position, and ignoring the part of his mind trying to remind him that getting caught listening in on his superiors' private conversation was probably going to be worth at least a week on bathroom duty, if he was lucky. "Why?" they asked. "'Revenge' isn't nearly enough, Erwin. How would Levi even know Nicholas Lobov, anyways?"

Jean's eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he shifted his weight a bit, pressing his ear a bit more firmly to the door. Suddenly, he wished he'd brought a glass—they were good for listening to things through, he remembered Bertolt telling him and _nope_, that was a dangerous path to go down, time to think about something else—

"You're not saying much," he heard Hange say. There was the hint of a slur clinging on to the end of their sentence, and Jean wondered if they were hungover, or still a little drunk. "C'mon, Commander, I'm not gonna be much help if you won't tell me."

"That part's not important."

"Might be," Hange argued. "You won't know 'less you tell me."

"I can't."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

"It's not mine to tell."

"_Ooh_, Shorty has a secret, then. C'mon, what is it?"

"Hange."

Some kind of silent exchange must take place, because Hange's next words are, "Alright, fine," in a softer tone. "How long'd you say he was out for?"

"A week, maybe more," said the Commander. "I've only known for a week."

"Did Historia know?" If Jean could have, he would have leaned even closer. He was almost sure that his ear was visible from the other side of the door.

"I doubt it," said Erwin. "And, if she did, I doubt she would have understood."

"_I_ don't understand," Hange grumbled, then, "You can't be sure he's _really_ gone, Erwin." Jean's eyes widened, and he groaned internally at his lack of context. "Maybe he's just pissed off to get drunk, or punch a tree, or something. You know how he is." There was a teasing lilt to the last part of the sentence, and Jean could see clearly, in his mind's eye, Hange waggling their eyebrows.

The Commander sounds less amused. "It's not that," he said. "It's—" He sighed. "It's about six years ago," he said, voice so low Jean almost couldn't catch the words. "His fr—" His voice became little more than a low hum, and Jean scowled.

He was crouched there for almost another full minute before he caught another word. ". . . narrow things down at all," said Hange. "The Walls are big, Erwin."

"Believe me, I know," said the Commander.

"What do you think I'll be able to do about this, anyways?" said Hange. "He—"

Jean heard footsteps on stone and his eyes flew open. He nearly fell over scrambling into a standing position, and grimaced as his leg cramped.

Another Scout rounded the corner, fully engrossed in the book in his hands. Von Essen, Jean thought his name was—a soldier maybe a year or two older than him. He sidestepped him as he passed.

The paper in his pocket was still weighing him down. Jean sighed and rapped on the door. He hadn't even knocked twice before letting out a yelp and drawing his hand as if he'd been burnt, knuckles stinging.

The door swung open, and Hange peeked around it. "Heya, Jean!" they said cheerily, a stark contrast to the heavy seriousness of their voice only seconds before. "Ouch." They grimaced at the sight of him carefully pinching a splinter from his finger. "Gotcha, did it?"

"Yeah." Jean dropped the splinter with a wince. "_Ow_." He shook his hand out. "Uh—" _Right_. He fumbled in his pocket. "I've got a message," he said. "By pigeon. We think it's for the Commander. . ?"

Hange pushed the door further open and turned, waving at him to come in. Erwin was leaning against his desk, arm gripping the wood. He nodded, and Jean saluted.

"Sir," said Jean. He held out the message. "We weren't sure who it was for—or what it said, really. Thought it might be best to bring it you you. . ."

Jean couldn't have said for sure what he thought crossed the Commander's expression when he took the note and looked down at it. _Tense_ was the only word that came to mind. His shoulders tightened, and the paper crinkled in his grip, but his face was as impassive and stony as it had been. . . well, on every other occasion Jean had ever seen him. "Thank you, Jean," he said.

"Right." Jean nodded.

"Jean."

"Yes, sir?"

"Your squad," said the Commander. "Take the day off."

"What? I mean—" Jean straightened into a salute. "Pardon, sir?"

"Take the day off," Erwin repeated. "Tell your squad."

"I—" Jean wet his lips. "Right. Of course, sir. Thank you."

Erwin nodded. Hange gave him a little wave as they ushered him out of the room, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Jean turned around and, slowly, began walking down the hall. The snippets of conversation he'd caught bounced around in his head and, suddenly, he wished he'd taken a bit longer to study the could-be message.

_Take the day off_. Jean shook his head in disbelief. The Commander was barking—the Captain would _never_ give them a day off. Even them literally being hunted down by the government hadn't stopped him from giving them drills (To be fair, the drills did end up saving their lives, but, still. Dick move.) and _wow_, that wasn't good to think about, either, time to change topics—

Jean froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

_The coup_.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

_Gone._

_Revenge._

_Message_.

Jean began to run

He'd figured it out.

XXX

The sewer systems built beneath the Capital were, when you really got down to it, ingenious. Really, they were. At the moment, Levi wanted nothing more than to find whoever had come up with the idea, shake their hand, and give them a gold star for being such a smart fucking asshole.

Honestly, what an original idea. Dig a bunch of big-ass holes in the ground, and let all the rain and shit just wash away. Save a lot of rich assholes from the mortal burden of having to step in puddles, and a lot of servants the trouble of washing mud stains out of expensive shit.

Well, except for the part where, every time it rained, the city below the street would be flooded with waves of muddy, filthy water.

Little details like that tended to make things sound a lot less impressive. Maybe that's why they didn't mention it often.

It had taken Levi about eight minutes to get to the end of the sewer, three of which he'd spent inching his way along in the dark, keeping his arms as still as possible and shuddering whenever anything brushed his skin. Spotting the light at the end of the tunnel had evoked less hope than dread and, by the time he'd actually reached it, he'd been ready to shit his pants.

Levi grimaced as he stared down at the city, which was somehow managing to be a sprawling hellscape and cramped mess at the same time. He could spot little blemishes on the not-landscape: leftover crates and ripped bags, tents that might once have been pristine white leaning awkwardly against walls and propped up in the streets, like trees with the dirt around their roots loosened just a bit too much. All leftovers from the supposed breach of Wall Rose.

Levi wondered if anybody could see him, then dismissed the thought just as quickly. Nobody ever looked up in the Underground.

He gripped the edge of the wall, and regretted the decision immediately. He snatched his hand away, skin crawling as he rubbed the dirt and _other stuff_ off on his cloak, and then scowled at the new stain on the fabric.

Well. At least it was brown.

He sighed and, before he could change his mind again, leapt off the edge.

He'd almost forgotten what flying was like in the Underground. Almost.

Sure, he'd flown underground in the past six years—the battle in the Reiss' cavern was the first that came to mind, and he'd braved more than enough caves during the Expeditions over the years—but he hadn't flown _Underground_. Even when they'd been trapped beneath the church, there had been air.

Not that there wasn't air down here. But it was different.

Everything felt heavier Underground—there was so much dust and filth in the air that breathing sometimes felt like swallowing broken glass, and hurt more than choking, and it was crushing. Falling was like sinking through a layer of mud that hadn't quite figured out that it was supposed to be mud yet, and flying was like swimming up through an ocean of sand. He could feel the microscopic specks of dust brushing up against him, scraping over his skin and pores, and he could feel everything else in the air, too: chalky stone and flakes of rotting wood and tiny flakes of skin and little specks of ash and smoke and what was left over when you stomped the fires out and the stuff that clings to breath when you exhale and the drops that dropped from drops of drops of piss and the must and decay of bodies that rotted away but didn't have anywhere to go and—

There used to be a time where he could live like this. Life on the surface had made him soft, Kenny would have said. He'd gotten used to being able to go as high as he wanted, and air that hadn't been through a thousand lungs before his, and water that was clear instead of grey.

Erwin had told him, once, about pressure. They'd been sitting on the banks of a lake in Middle Rose, on one of the rare days where neither of them had anything to do. It had to have been years ago—Levi couldn't remember how many (he couldn't remember a lot of things—he couldn't remember when he'd stopped snapping his handles to clear them of the clinging rust Farlan had never quite been able to pick out, he couldn't remember when he'd stopped writing his forms on the special grid paper Eld had gotten him for not-his-birthday two years ago, and he couldn't remember what Mike's last words to him had been) (he was terrified that he'd forget what sunlight felt like on his skin). Erwin had told him that, the lower you got, the more pressure the water put on you.

"It's theoretical," Erwin had said, kicking a bit at the water. Levi had wrinkled his nose and scooted back from the splash. "But it makes sense, doesn't it?"

That was what it felt like. Like a hundred thousand pounds of air and floating dust crushing him like a can.

Levi fired out a cable and swung smoothly to the ground. He took a moment to steady himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His lungs burned, and he couldn't help but remember how many other people had breathed that air before it got to him.

He tugged his hood over his face with a growl, and set off into the darkness.

XXX

The smell of cigarette smoke was heavy, almost stifling. The suffocating heat of the room and the fire burning away in the hearth weren't helping, either.

"Could you not?" Micah demanded.

His patron took another deep drag, the snuffed the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray in front of him. _Crystal_ ashtray. Honestly. "Forgive me," he said, with a rumble in the back of his throat that might have been enticing on someone younger, but just put in mind a pig choking on sand. "I hadn't realized you were sensitive to it."

Micah nearly scoffed aloud. _Sensitive_ to it. As if smoke and stenches were strangers to him. "It's just hot," he said. Not a lie. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, glinting in the firelight and sunlight pouring through the ornate window (bright, so bright, and fractured into a million multicoloured pieces), and his shirt was sticking to his back. He felt like a pig roasting in an oven. _This is bullshit_, he thought. "When're your pals getting here?" he asked.

"They'll be along soon," said his patron. Micah resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Please." The other man gestured at the glass on the table. "Drink. You must be thirsty."

He was thirsty. He glanced down at the tumbler in front of him. _Fuck it_. He grabbed it and tipped the whole thing down his throat. His patron watched silently as he slammed it back on the table and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Impressive," was all he said, and Micah nearly snorted aloud. The drink had gone down like honey and water (not that he'd had either of those for a long time), and had burnt like a patch of stone warmed by a flickering match—which was, to say, not at all.

His patron leaned forwards and refilled the tumbler. Micah wrinkled his nose at the splash of alcohol that barely filled half the glass. Stupid rich people and their stupid fucking rules. He downed it in a gulp again. His patron watched as he took the bottle and refilled the glass himself, stopping only when the amber liquid was nearly spilling over the rim. Micah took a long, slow sip then leaned back, crossing his arms.

"Your pals," he repeated.

"Soon," his patron promised. "Have you done what I asked?"

"Yeah." Micah picked at a loose thread on his shirt. "My guys down there're on the lookout."

"Remember to hide the wares," his patron warned. "He's cautious, and he'll be looking for you."

"I'm not stupid," said Micah. "I've heard of them, I know who they are."

"The Survey Corps are famous." His patron inclined his head, raising his own glass at him. "Just being cautious, my friend."

_Not your friend_. Micah opened his mouth, ready to tell him so, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened a crack, and a servant in rich blue livery slipped through. "Your guests, sir," he said, bowing his head.

Micah's patron stood as two more men and a woman stepped into the room. Micah stayed sitting. "My friends," he boomed, spreading his arms. Micah resisted the urge to gag.

Micah let his mind drift off as the walking piles of silk and satin exchanged greetings. He tilted his head back as they filed past him to the other seats around the table and watched sparkling sunlight bounce off the polished pieces of crystal dangling from the chandelier overhead. He fantasized idly about what would happen if he shot the chain holding it to the ceiling and let it crush the table, and them with it.

The woman, face covered in a layer of powder and paint so thick it may as well have been a mask, fluffed mousy red ringlets as she settled into her seat. "Who's your friend, Herman?" she asked, shooting Micah a glance down her pointy nose.

Micah kept her gaze coolly, and kept glaring at her even after she turned away. "This is Mr. Gruber," said his patron. "Our partner, from below."

"Oh." The woman blinked. "So, when you said—"

"The partnership is vital," one of the men rasped. Micah glanced at him out the corner of his eye. Thin as a rake, bald and balding still, and staring out at them with beady, sunken eyes like a rat in a hole.

"Of course." The woman fluttered her fan, then snapped it shut. The sound echoed in the room like a gunshot. "This wouldn't be your first time slinking about with the rats, would it, Nicholas?" the woman said, her cheery giggle not masking the mockery in her voice or the cruel vacancy behind her eyes.

"No, Dörthe," said the man identified as Nicholas, smoothing the front of his shirt. "It is not." There was a look of barely-masked disdain on his face as he looked up at Dörthe.

"It means he knows caution," wheezed the other man. "Caution you would do well to learn, my lady. We are in a precarious situation."

"I am cautious," Dörthe sniffed. "I was not the one making the Commander's acquaintance last night, Wojciech. And his _dog_," she added with a sneer.

"How many times, my dear?" the old man who looked like a vulture said, and Micah briefly considered the benefits of blowing his own brains out. "It was necessary."

Herman coughed loudly. "If we could please focus," he said.

Micah rolled his eyes. _Finally_.

"Mr. Gruber informs me that the letter has been sent," said Herman. "Dörthe, the production?"

"Well," said Dörthe haughtily. "It will be left," she glanced at Micah, "for Mr. Gooer—"

"Gruber," Micah growled.

Dörthe's face twisted. "Gruber," she corrected, face twisting as if she'd just tasted something horrible. "I believe the Southern Mitras entrance will be agreeable."

Micah's lip twisted. "Eastern Liwel," he said. "Two days from now." Not for any reason in particular. He just felt like it.

Dörthe's face twitched, but she made no argument. Micah sneered in silent victory. "The others as well, then," said the man called Nicholas.

Micah's head snapped around. "What others?" he demanded.

"Some extra goods," said his patron, folding his hands neatly in front of him. "For Nicholas's benefit."

"Extra goods?" Micah scowled. There was a familiar heat building up at the base of his neck, and he flexed his fingers, hearing his joints lock and snap. "We never agreed on that. Six crates of Greenlight, that's what we agreed on."

"Oh my," said Dörthe drily, taking a small sip from her own tumbler. "How reliable." Micah resisted the urge to punch her.

"What are they, anyways?" Micah demanded.

"Nothing you'll need to concern yourself with." The look Nicholas fixed him with from across the table was a look of pure loathing, and Micah's fingers curled into the meat of his thigh. "It's a. . ." his eyes glinted, and his lip curled in a cruel impersonation of a smile, "private matter." The bullshit, he meant.

"A man will assist you," said his patron.

"Like hell he will," said Micah. "My guys won't like it." His fingers were still twitching, longing to wrap themselves around a fat throat, and he dragged his hand up, wrapping it around the rough cross hanging around his throat instead. Wojciech sniffed, and Dörthe muttered something under her breath that sounded like _heathen_.

"He will not interfere with your operation," said Nicholas, spitting out the final word like a glob of phlegm.

Micah scowled. "This have anything to do with why you want us to keep an eye on the runt?" he asked.

Nicholas's eyes flashed and, for a moment, he looked everything like a hungry predator silhouetted in the firelight. "You wouldn't understand," he said. "Don't bother."

Micah's lip twisted. He knows him, he thinks. Not personally, of course—he's never seen the man in his life. But something about him—his eyes, maybe, dark and twisted at the corners, or the sallow pinch of his wrinkled cheeks—is like a mirror, reflecting every hollow-gazed, hungry face he's ever seen in the Underground.

Nicholas swallows his liquor like a man drowning in a desert, and Micah thinks that he might not be the only rat in the room.


End file.
